Open Book Blog Hop: Three Things Shaping My Voice

Winetasting in Paso Robles

What are three things that make you unique? That was the prompt for this week's Open Book Blog Hop. I think you'll see a lot of connection between my answer and my books.

Ultimately the thing that makes a writer unique is experience. Accident of birth places us in a certain range of possible experience and life directions. In my case, there are a few specific things which guide everything else.

First, and perhaps the most obvious, is the influence of my parents. My parents are both ordained Baptist ministers (it is one of the family occupations in my tree). However, their brand of religion is not exclusionary in the least. It is carefully considered, thoughtful, and deep. My father is a man of logic and learning, who enjoys everything life has to offer, from watching a finch take a bath, to winetasting, to playing electric bass or guitar in a funk band. When my friends meet him, they say, "Your dad is so cool!" Half the time they end up befriending him on Facebook.

My mother is a powerful person. She dictates the climate of every room she enters (a gift I inherited, for better or worse). She suffered prejudice in order to follow her calling. I think because of this, she determined not to pigeon-hole me into a gender label. Instead, as a child she gave me gender neutral clothes unless I asked for something "girly." She made sure I had all kinds of toys, from remote control cars to blocks to dolls. I had science and craft kits. Thanks to her, I never felt like I couldn't do something because I had a uterus.

Second, I experienced a lot of overt misogyny from toddlerhood through young adulthood. I write a lot about this in my memoir THRIVE, and while I won't go into the details of what happened here, it definitely shaped who I am and my voice as a writer (especially in the context of my upbringing). This made me hunger for compassionate justice for all people, no matter their identity or station. It definitely directs my themes in all my fiction, but especially in THE ROLLINS PACK, because I wanted boys to particularly understand how their actions can impact others.

Finally, I am an optimist. Despite whatever crazy things happen to me (again, see THRIVE for some of the nitty gritty), I look for the beauty and wonder in all things. This may be considered a quality or trait as opposed to an experience, but it definitely shapes how I view my life experience and how I approach new things. I always give people the benefit of the doubt. If I don't know I person, I never credit their reputation until I have seen and experienced it myself. If something bad happens, I always look for the lesson or opportunity available. When there is the option for adventure, I always say yes - because I see all the marvelous possibilities and potential. It's how I ended up studying abroad in Hungary at the last minute (I heard a professor talk and decided I was going a month before.). It's how I got married in India in the Himalayas (Because why not? A story for another time...).

These are the things that stick out in my head as dictating what I do and how I do it. These are the things that shape my work and my path through life. What about you? Leave a comment below or write a post and join the hop!

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Looking for a diversion this August? Be sure to check out P.J. MacLayne's books. If you like werewolves like I do, you might want to pick up a copy of WOLVES' PAWN. It explores werewolf social structure and has a love story, the kind of thing I love in paranormal!

Also be sure to read about MacLayne's Wyoming adventures. There are some super cool pics on her blog.

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An InLinkz Link-up

Birth of A Siren

Every day I ache, a wretched invisible ache. My wounds are hidden from view unless I choose to share them. Unless I reveal them, no one ever knows. No one ever sees. And they have no idea how painful it is to hear, to read their opinions – thoughts that deny my experience. Ideas that mock my life. That mock my ache.

How many ways can a woman suffer at the hands of men? Sometimes it feels like my life is an attempt to answer this question. Pick a chapter of my life, and I will show you. I spin around, eyes closed, and throw a dart. Find another way. Find another wound.

The beginning was so early. A toddler. A hidden memory. A dream? And it left its marks all over me. I never trusted adults, especially men. I didn't trust my own family members. I didn't trust boys. Any volatility was a sign to steer clear. Every action, from avoiding the toilets outside of teachers' sight at school, to walking home a block away from a group of boys, it was all calculated defense.

Stay invisible. Stay safe. Stay outside of reach. I won't get hurt – again.

But the stage was set. Another boy, another time, bent on abusing his power. And I gave mine away. I gave it away because I didn't know I had it. I didn't know who I was yet. So I took his scathing tongue. I took his sharp hand. I let him tear me down, as if it was okay, as others watched, doing nothing. Doing nothing because they didn't know better? Doing nothing because they agreed? Why doesn't matter.

Followed walking home. Anonymous letters. Laced drinks at a party. Betrayed by someone once trusted. Telling and no one believes me. No one knows what to do. No one knows how to act. No one knows what to say.

It must be my fault, right? I must have done something. I must have deserved all this. Because I wasn't dressed in Kevlar. Because I wasn't carrying a taser. Because I didn't kick him in the balls when he was sitting with me and my friends at lunch, smiling, and joking like we're all good here. Because I should have known that everyone close to me is a potential attacker. I should have hid my body even more...somehow suppressed the intense curves I was born to have. I should have… I should have… I should have…

And I am alone.

I call into the chaos, speaking truth and a thousand poisonous daggers point back.

I'm too mean. I'm a bitch. I'm too sexy. I'm a whore. I'm too pretty. I'm a slut. I'm too vocal. I'm annoying. I'm too smart. I'm wrong. I'm too much.

I'm a woman.

I'm monstrous feminine.

Despite the hidden scars I carry, the pain I feel when reading denials of my experience, I stand here. I stand, with natural armor, acquired through my battles. My skin is beautiful, perfect for withstanding any siege. I smile, baring teeth, my threat plain. I stand, proclaiming truth, defying the chaos. And my power whips about me, a hurricane beating against blind shores. I walk, back straight, head high. I wield my ache like a battle cry, a siren's call into the void.

Hear me!

Hear me sisters!

Our time is now.

Claim your power.

Claim your right.

Speak.

Stand.

Fight.

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If you want to learn more about my story and how I gained my perfect armor, reserve a copy of my book THRIVE: HOW I BECAME A SUPERHERO. To follow a crash course of my process, reserve a copy of TRANSFORM TO THRIVE: 32 DAYS FROM VICTIM TO SUPERHERO. 

We Don't Know What We're Doing

Can we all admit we have no idea what we're doing?

I read a ton of articles about pretty much every kind of topic in a day. I read about writing, of course, but mostly I read about everything else.

I read about politicians who play out their boyhood (because they're primarily male) wet dreams in the world stage because they can, not caring who they hurt. I read about non profits trudging on, making a difference in kids' lives while chaos swirls around them. I read about the sordid lives of celebrities. I read about climate change being proven over and over again across the world. I read about the latest style trends. I read about scientific theories and discoveries and arguments over all manner of things. I read about alcohol consumption. I read about art movements and documentary films showcasing all kinds of things from the very disturbing to the utterly mundane.

I've been doing this for several weeks straight, courtesy of the ease of access to such articles through Facebook.

I've even noticed how the viral videos spread - who are early adopters and complete social media addicts while others are slow to find these things (or maybe this is a result of having certain types of friends?).

And my conclusion to all this observation?

We humans have no frickin' clue what we're doing. We're just groping around in the dark.

At first I thought it was just in publishing. I thought my own stumbling path was an isolated incident. I thought my lack of know-how with utilizing social media, my lack of resources to outsource things like editing and artwork was holding me back. I thought if I digested enough material I could figure out something and somehow cobble together the great "Alexis Solution," but I am still searching (Note: I am still holding out hope and when I do discover it, I will absolutely put it into an information product for fun and profit!).

Now I realize it isn't about publishing, but about being human. We grab on to whatever bit of truth or limited fact supports our thoughts and hold on with everything we've got. Sometimes we use correct logic. Sometimes not. Sometimes we get hyper emotional one direction or another. Occasionally this is to our detriment. Other times this makes the world a better place. Always, we stumble forward, trying to make sense of the world around us, about other people, and finally, ourselves.

This lends some truth to the idea, the very ancient idea, that we are each an expression of the Universe housed in our limited bodies. This little piece of the greater whole, reaching out, attempting to experience itself through whatever natural laws will allow. It is play. It is horror. It is glory. It is everything and nothing.

That is the nature of the universe.

Somewhere a Hindu is reading this and thinking, welcome to Brahman and Atman. Somewhere a physicist is reading this and thinking, yes. The consciousness of everyone, dumped back into that great mystery of space.

Maybe they're sitting next to one another. They look up, smile, and shake hands. I imagine the conversation starts something like this:

"Hello, fellow traveler. Tell me about your groping, stumbling, adventure through the dark."

Total Equality: A Feminist Manifesto

Recently Obama called for the American legislature to require equal pay for equal work. There have been a lot of conversations about that.

I would argue his call is premature, not because I don't want that. I do. I absolutely completely do. I just think the problem is bigger than that.

You can't eradicate a symptom if you don't cure the disease. The disease, in this case, is sexism, and it is pandemic. The body politic is infested with this horrible, debilitating illness. And we need a cure. We can treat the symptoms, but they will keep coming back in one way or another, until we address the illness as a whole.

It is for this reason I wrote and published TOTAL EQUALITY. I don't think people realize how pervasive sexism is in America. I don't think people realize how damaging it is, how painful it is, as a woman, to be systematically disregarded over and over again (my brown skinned friends know this very well, and I empathize with that hot mess because there is a lot of overlap). I wrote this because I wanted it to be absolutely clear, in one place, easily understood, just what is required for women to be equal to men.

Obama is right. It should happen now. It has been a long time. But let's be clear - this is still a big task, especially when America won't admit there is a problem in the first place.

I'm Not Beautiful

"You look beautiful tonight."

This could be a compliment, or it could be condescension.

Does a woman appreciate this compliment when she just spent an hour on her appearance for a date? Of course. But what about when she just gave a speech? Sang a song? Performed in a play? Taught a class? Created an art piece? Solved an equation? Invented a life-saving mechanism? Won a court case?

How disparaging is that comment now? How belittling? When I hear a man (because 9 times out of 10 it is a man) saying this, I cringe.

Why is it that appearance trumps accomplishment? Beauty fades. It's gone in an instant. There's nothing a person does to be beautiful. You're born that way, or you're not. Money spent on lotions, pills, dyes, serums, and surgeries is wasted. They give limited success and only serve to make you feel even worse about yourself because they highlight things you can never have or ever get back.

Why congratulate someone on their beauty when they just accomplished something wonderful? Wouldn't the commenter's words be better suited to give specific compliments about the accomplishment rather than belittling the woman by referring to something she has little control over (despite what make-up PR campaigns would have you believe)?

When I do something big, be it publish my tenth book, win an Oscar, or receive a Fulbright, don't tell me that I look pretty no matter how fantastic I look. In that moment, I'm not beautiful. I'm accomplished. Congratulate me on that.

Pregnancy Weight Gain Makes Me Cry

Well it doesn't make me cry, but it does make me concerned.

I was overweight according to my BMI or something before I got pregnant. I was actually making some progress towards my goal as far as fat percentages etc, and then I got pregnant immediately.

I don't look fat when not pregnant, but I've been lucky and carry my weight well. Still, I can't help but remember lower scale numbers and and easier time buying clothes (as well as looking fantastic in a bikini).

Then came pregnancy. It's one of the times women are allowed to eat a lot of food without feeling too guilty...or so they say...except that's a lie.

Even though I've packed on the pounds according to my scale, I'm not big. It is still possible to hide my belly depending on what I wear (owing mostly to other parts of me that continue to grow...ahem). I don't feel like I've gained a ton of weight. I only eat when I'm hungry, which is good. It just happens to be that I'm hungry all the time.

When I eat, I try to make sure I eat enough. I have tried to eat more fruits and veggies thinking that might help me eat less over all, but I end up eating the same amount of protein and carbs as I would otherwise...just in a binge causing more heartburn. Grrr.

That protein is what I need. It's what kiddo needs. I know that. I know it because it is what I seek out consciously and subconsciously on a minute by minute basis. I know it's going mostly to my baby because I don't see the major size changes happening in my arms or legs...in fact, I think my thighs have gotten a little skinnier.

That's just weird.

But even though I know these things, and can see them somewhat, I can't help but hear that small voice in the back of my brain when I catch sight of dimples on my thighs, or fat rolling on my side. I can't help but scowl at my thickening ankles and swollen calves. In my mind, I shouldn't look like this pregnant. I should look smoother, more sleek, just like the models in pregnancy magazines.

And then I think, those bastards have screwed me up again!

It wasn't enough that I felt insecure about my body in high school, or that I still wanted to get rid of that last bit of belly fat in college. It wasn't enough that I poked and prodded myself in the mirror examining every square inch for imperfections, wishing wholeheartedly that I could erase certain parts of my body and THEN I would be beautiful.

No, you had to fricking ruin pregnancy too.

Goddamn you people! There's a special place in hell for people who perpetuate this anti-woman psychological torture machine.

I know it's a racket. I know I'm beautiful (even if I want to be *more* so to fit into these bizarre media metrics).  So I try to look at the parts of me I like, while ignoring those I don't. I try to focus on the fact that kiddo needs the food I'm shoveling into my face. It's not some weird emotional response or need for comfort or some unhealthy disorder. I'm actually doing what I'm supposed to be doing. I keep saying this to myself over and over again.

But I really hope this weight disappears after kiddo is out. At that point, thankfully I can return to criticizing my faults in peace.